“But what are we doing out here?” Nathan watched his uncle’s sweating face. Uncle Aaron preferred the cold of winter to a Boston summer’s heat and humidity. He said his blood was thick from his Scottish highlands boyhood. Nathan’s head was full of his uncle’s stories: living in the shadow of mountains that held on to their white caps year-round, wind whipping across the high plateaus, sleeping in the cold loft of a tiny cottage, burning peat, whatever that was, in an iron stove for heat.

“We’re asking the gods to cure your ma.”

“Dad took me to church yesterday. The priest said a blessing, and we lit a candle for her.” He’d been praying as hard as he could, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

“Ah. That’s good,” Uncle Aaron said.

“Then why are we here?”

“Because you cannot have too many blessings.”

Uncle Aaron made a good point. Nathan wanted his mother to get better more than anything. He missed meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He missed the way his school uniform was always stiff and smooth, the way his mom fussed over his hair as he went out the door. His life was divided into two distinct chapters, before and after.

He’d do anything to return to before.

Uncle Aaron reached into the box behind the seat. He pulled out a black iron pot. “See this, Nathan?” He lifted the lid. Inside, gold chains and silver coins glistened as the first rays of the sun cut through the morning mist. “Before you can ask something of the gods, first you have to make an offering. Nothing’s free, lad.”

His uncle hefted the pot to the side and shoved it out of the boat. It disappeared with a trail of bubbles. Nathan nearly reached for it. Dad would flip if he saw what Uncle Aaron just did. Mom’s doctor bills were draining them dry. “How much was that stuff worth?”

“Aye. That’s the point, Nathan. A worthless offering isn’t a sacrifice.” Instead of getting mad at his question, as Dad would, Uncle Aaron met Nathan’s gaze with patience. “Tell me, lad. What hangs in the front of your church?”

“A crucifix.” Sometimes when he was supposed to be listening to the Mass, Nathan stared at the gory statue, finely detailed down to the drops of blood running from Christ’s hands and feet.

“And what does that stand for?”

Nathan repeated what he’d been taught. “Jesus died on the cross so we could go to heaven even though we’re all sinners.”

“Ah.” Uncle Aaron shrugged. “So why didn’t God just save his son?”

“I don’t know.” The nuns at school weren’t big on answering questions. They pretty much liked the kids to sit still and keep a lid on it during Mass.